The Ice Storm 

 by Dan Fogelberg

 

One cold December weeknight , my brothers and I sat huddled with our faces near the frosty windows, looking out with wonder as a winter storm shook the night and coated everything with a sharp jacket of glittering ice; a storm so violent, it rattled the glass and pelted the doors like jackhammers and blew whole branches from the leafless trees. Even our parents faces were drawn with concern and anxious tension as the very sky seemed to shatter and tear into a million tiny shards. The streets were empty of cars and people and beneath the isolated streetlights wild shadows skittered and danced like witches at a coven. The town came to a standstill, awestruck, its populace driven to their sheltering  houses and flickering fires by a furious nature venting her wrath across the barren Midwest. Slowly, barely perceptively, as we watched the night deepen, the sleet and hard ice gradually became a driving snow as the temperature lowered. The winds began to diminish and the specter of the fearful storm softened into a gentle snowfall. Our parents nerves relaxed and we were sent to bed, happily expecting the announcements of school closings the next morning.

 

We awoke to a wonderland beyond our wildest imaginings - a world tangled in wondrously beautiful ice; the trees shining and bending under the weight, the bushes and hedges standing motionless like petrified glass sculptures, the curbs and sidewalks looking like some marvelous Norse fairyland, and the streets lying vacant and inaccessible beneath a half inch of perfectly smooth ice. Skating ice! Could it be? Would it melt before we could try it out?

 

Three disheveled boys tumbled out of bed and flew down to the kitchen where the radio was reporting a snarl of traffic accidents and power outages. City officials urged citizens to stay indoors and to drive only in emergencies. Schools would remain open but students were not required to attend unless they lived nearby and could walk to and from classes. We lived approximately two miles from school and were accustomed to walking but today who could walk? 

 

Today we would skate to school! 

 

I was so excited that I could  barely swallow my bowl of steaming, buttery oatmeal or wait for my mother to finish packing my lunch. Bundled up to my eyes, removing my mittens from the hot air register where they’d  been left the night before to dry, I hurriedly laced up clumsy brown hockey skates and stepped out onto the front porch. The bitter, crackling air rushed into my lungs and sinuses, freezing the the small hairs lining my nose and setting my blood to pumping, my eyes to watering. At first my feet moved tentatively towards the porch steps and after a careful descent, found the driveway where I caught sight of my brother Peter whizzing and twirling like a speed skater down the glistening street. My reservations vanished, my nerves tightened and off I pushed down the steep concrete driveway, promptly to fall - smash! - on my well padded knees and elbows at the bottom. With the initial shock and pain behind me, I glided out onto the pavement, magnificently carving long arcs across the familiar terrain now rendered so utterly different and magical by its icy mantle.

 

Squeals of laughter greeted me from the end of the block and I saw a group of friends testing out the newly formed playground and inventing all sorts of wonderful new games. The world had been deserted by the adults, the few who did venture out to collect the newspaper or sweep the walk fell ludicrously on their backsides and clambered back indoors, muttering profanities under their frigid breaths, and now belonged to the children. What heady abandon in each reddened face! What unfettered glee in each shivering motion! The world was ours! Joyfully, we skated to school on the streets we had walked so often, engaging in personal or collective dogfights and jousts along the way, laughing at the dogs’ attempts to keep up. Up and down the streets and drives, every one a new challenge,  every one an adventure. Across the vast parking lot of the supermarket, cleared of snow and just begging to be the sight of our neighborhood Winter Olympics; down rough gravelly alleys that grabbed at our skates and made us fall; along the peaceful sidewalks; through forests of blown glass; on busy thoroghfares where traffic usually hustled and rushed and, finally, to school.

 

We clumped through the hallways and into the classrooms and sat stocking footed at our wooden desks as our gloves, hats, coats and mufflers lined the radiators and littered the floors. All talk was of the storm and skating and play and after several unruly hours the teachers decided to let the few students who had attended leave.

 

We spent the afternoon racing around the vacant lot behind the Episcopal church, practicing our turns and pirouettes. We held trial heats and quick sprints and hockey games and long arduous endurance races. We performed graceful ballets and imitated our Olympic heroes and heroines. We hitched rides on the bumpers of the few unsuspecting cars that ventured past. We bruised elbows and twisted ankles and cursed and got to our feet again. We skated until it felt like the blades were attached directly to the soles of our feet.

And we skated some more. After dark, we skated within the confines of the spots the streetlights created and were allowed to stay out later than usual. 

 

By the next morning the ice was almost gone; the town returned to normal and the grownups regained control. We walked to school again and the cars filled the streets and highways as they had before. The storm was soon forgotten, as storms always seem to be, and the magic of that day faded from all but a few memories. But for me, the magic lingered and if I had ever doubted that magic exists, I could no longer. Magic had spent the day with me.